


Straight to You

by Duckyboos



Series: Murder Ballads [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Blood and Gore, Breathplay, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Murder Husbands, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Rough Sex, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer Dean, Shower Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> <i>Heaven has denied us its kingdom,</i><br/><i>And the saints are all drunk and howling at the moon, </i><br/><i>And the chariots of angels are colliding. </i><br/><i>Well, I'll run, babe, but I'll come running, </i><br/><i>Straight to you. </i><br/><i>For I am captured. </i><br/></p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>There are no bounds to Castiel's obsession. Or is it Dean’s? </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I’ve never said Castiel was the hero of this story. ‘Cause he _so_ isn’t.
> 
> That said, enjoy.

_Oh fuck. Oh fuck._

Dean’s eyes are rolled so far back in his own skull, he’s sure that he can see the misfiring neurons in his brain; like pretty pretty fireworks on the fourth of July.

He can feel his blood pumping, sluggish and lava hot in his veins.

He can _taste_ the iron-rich, salty tang on the spray.

He’s gonna die like this.

He’s gonna die in a plush bathroom, one with toilet seat covers – _toilet seat covers for fucks sake_ – in the middle of Portland, Oregon, and he hasn’t even seen the world’s largest bookshop yet.

Somewhere out there beyond the fuzziness that’s closing in on him, past the steam of the running shower he can hear a not-quite-rhythmic thud that his oxygen-starved brain takes a while to recognize as someone – possibly the fucking Gestapo by the sounds of it – banging on the motel room door.

Cas. _Fuck, Cas_.

The hand at his throat loosens, thumb that had been pressed over his windpipe letting up just enough that he can breathe again. The strong, lean body that has him shoved up against and pinned to the slick tiles of the shower wall begins to slowly pull away, the thick length of the dick in his ass withdrawing, and Dean manages a feeble whimper.

No. So close. No.

He scrambles for leverage against slippery damp skin, heels spurring and nails digging into firm flesh, desperation his driving motivation, forcing Cas back deep inside, back where he belongs, keeping and holding him there with the tight clench of muscle, guttural moan articulating his relief.

“ _Dean_.” Castiel grinds out, all gritted teeth and black eyes, mindless now as he resumes fucking Dean; tight, driving thrusts that have him savoring the burn of obliteration at the back of his throat, and if this is how he dies, Dean’s glad that the inhuman noises Cas is pounding from his lungs will be his death rattle.

Cas. _Fuck, Cas_.

“Come for me, Dean.” It’s not a request. Castiel doesn’t _request_ anything. Castiel _demands_. Castiel _takes_. Doesn’t need to put a hand on Dean’s dick to make his command a reality, and there’s something about it that never fails to wreck Dean, and so he obeys, helplessly, mindlessly; cock jerking between them as he comes, choking on his tongue, on a sob, on his own desire, until there’s nothing else left, but the perfect torture of it, the sin, the ruination.

Cas’s cock pulses slow and wet in Dean’s ass, lazily fucking in and out of his orgasm-loose, pliant body, until the banging on the door becomes too much for either one of them to bear.

This time when Cas pulls away, Dean lets him go, nothing but a bundle of nerves as he sinks to the bottom of the tub. Boneless and thoroughly fucked out.

“Jesus Christ, Dean.” Castiel mutters, shoving a hand through his hair, smoothing the unruly damp strands down. He looks torn between helping Dean recover from what may have been _the_ petite mort of his lifetime and going to the door with a .45 in his hand.

“Better answer that, Cas.” Dean barely manages. His voice is scratchy, throat hoarse and he’s sure that there’s a necklace of bruises already forming, purple overlaid on yellow. He resists the urge to touch, to bring his hand up and wreck Castiel’s handiwork.

“Fuck.” Cas mutters, eyes still on Dean, stepping backwards out of the tub with a grace that shouldn’t be possible under normal circumstances, let alone after a killer orgasm.

“Don’t forget a towel.” Dean grits out after him.

 

***

 

By the time Dean’s limbs are cooperating enough to allow him to climb out of the tub, he’s sure that anyone from the neighboring rooms who was there to make a noise complaint will be long gone.

When faced with Cas’s charm or – in some of the dingier places they’ve stayed, the business end of a sawn-off – people usually back down pretty quickly.

But just to be on the safe side – theirs – Dean wraps a towel loosely around his waist before he steps out into the opulent room, plush carpet soft between his toes.

What he sees leaves him breathless in a completely different way to ten minutes before.

Cas is mostly dressed now, towel lying discarded on the California King – jeans zipped, but not buttoned, and a haphazardly thrown on shirt – and his hands are being cuffed behind his back by a burly-looking officer of the law, whilst another, more studious looking one stands nearby, reciting the Miranda rights in a bored tone.

His amber eyes flick over Dean, but don’t linger.

“The fuck?” Dean mutters, trying to tamp down the rising panic, clawing up his throat like a wild animal. “No.”

_No._

No, they can’t have been caught. They’ve been so careful.

Dean’s mind spools through all of the people, the bodies, the carnage. There’s nothing. Two hundred and sixteen pints of blood spilled in the last eighteen months and there’s not a drop of it that can be traced back to them.

Neither of the officers make an attempt on Dean, so he pads further into the room, towards Cas. “What’s going on?” He’s addressing Castiel, but an answer from anyone will do at this stage.

Satisfied that Cas is sufficiently cuffed – which may be his second critical mistake today – the arresting officer turns his attention to Dean, coffee-brown eyes faintly appreciative of Dean’s half-nude form.

_That’ll be his third._

“He’s being arrested for assault with a deadly weapon. It’s an offence that carries –“

Dean’s hit with the sudden urge to laugh hysterically in the officer’s face. These days, Cas doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than a homicide, and it’s not like he has ever needed a weapon – deadly or freakin’ otherwise – to hurt or kill someone.

The whole thing would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that this is _actually happening_ , and there’s a very real chance that Cas could go to prison.

Dean cannot let that happen. He’ll move Heaven and Hell to make sure that it doesn’t.

_Better fucking listen to the cop then, eh?_

“ – assault three. We’ll be taking him down to the station. If you want, Officer Taylor can wait here with you until you’re dressed and then give you a ride down there.”

Castiel lets out a low sound akin to a growl.

Possessive bastard. Officer Taylor better watch his back when Cas finally gets out.

 _If_ he gets out.

Shit.

First things first. A lawyer. They need a lawyer. Dean’s not opposed to going all medieval on the cops’ asses, but realistically, he’s not going to get far into a police station by himself, even with their entire arsenal of weapons that are kept in a trick compartment in the Impala’s trunk.

Which means doing things by the book; an indulgence which Dean hasn’t entertained in quite some time.

Lawyer.

_Sammy._

“No, that’s alright.” Dean says, trying to appear like he has a clue, fist clenched in the knotted fabric at his hip. “I’ll need to get our attorney down here and then I’ll make my way to the station once I’ve briefed him.”

 

***

 

 

Sam picks up after four rings, slightly out of breath. “Dean.” He sounds relieved. It makes the space behind Dean’s ribs ache. “Long time no –“

“Speak. Yeah, I know. I’m a shit brother.” Dean doesn’t have time for the guilt trip that Sam is undoubtedly about to gift him with, can’t even spare the minutes it would take to hand over his baggage at the check-in desk. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, dude. Things have been crazy.”

 _Crazy like three weeks ago in Cedar City, Utah where Castiel gutted a man like a fish?_ _Or crazy like four months ago in Shelby, Montana where you both beat someone to death with claw hammers? Or crazy like –_

Not helpful.

“My boyfriend has been arrested.”

There’s nothing but the faint crackle of static at the other end of the line for several long seconds. When Sam speaks again, it’s clear that he’s in lawyer mode. Dean’s thankful for it. He’s not sure he can field any of the questions that are almost certainly on the tip of Sam’s tongue right now. “Okay. For what?”

“Assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Okay.” Sam says again, this time a little more carefully. He’s treating Dean like a client. Good. They can deal with the actual fallout of this later. Or in true Winchester fashion, perhaps never. Perhaps just allude to it on special occasions. “Assault with a deadly weapon sounds scarier than it is. It means nothing. It’s usually a misdemeanor.”

Something in Dean’s chest lifts. A misdemeanor they can work with. As far as he’s aware, Cas has no priors, but then again, that doesn’t really count for much, because as far as Dean had been aware at one point, Cas was just a professor of English Lit.

“Which means no jail time?”

The infinitesimal hesitation before Sam answers is a heart-attack waiting to happen. “It depends. Where are you? Which state?”

“Oregon.”

“Gimme a minute.” There’s a rustling sound from Sam’s end of the line, the sound of muffled voices and papers shuffling. “Okay.”

If Sam says ‘okay’ one more time, when it so clearly isn’t, Dean’s gonna reach through the phone and slap his brother.

“Were you there when he was arrested?”

“Yeah.” Dean feels the familiar rush of heat to his cheeks at the reminder of exactly what they were doing. His hair is still damp. When he reaches up to his neck this time, he doesn’t stop himself from pressing down on the bruised skin. A semi-permanent reminder.

“Right.”  – _at least he didn’t say ‘okay’_ – “What did the arresting officer say? Did he mention a specific charge?”

“Yeah, assault with a deadly weapon.” Dean mutters, more than a little frustrated. Either they’ve already been over this or Dean’s still in the bathroom, actually dead and this is all some weird Hell concocted just for him. “He read Cas his rights. Uhm. I dunno. Said something about assault three? I think?”

“Shit. That’s a felony they’ve charged him with. Probably a class C. Maybe a B.”

Well, fuck. “Speak English, Sammy.”

“Class C warrants about 5 years in prison, Class B is double that.”

Goddamn. Ten years. _Ten fucking years_.

And for what? For what essentially amounts to a whole lot of fuck all. For Christ’s sakes, Alastair served less than that and he nearly _killed_ Dean.

The familiar sense of injustice begins to rear its ugly head; the sense of righteous anger that Castiel finally managed to get him to embrace rather than reject, bubbling away thick and hot in his gut, bitter and scorching.

“Dean.”

No, no, no, no.

This is not happening. Cannot be allowed to happen.

He is _not_ losing Castiel over this bullshit.

“ _Dean_. Has he got representation?”

Dean supposes he should be thankful for Sam not asking whether Cas is actually guilty. He wouldn’t know what to say. Maybe? Probably? Even if he’s not guilty of it this particular time, there’s another hundred instances stacked up that would be easy substitutes.

It doesn’t matter whether he’s guilty or not.

_No?_

“No.”

There’s movement from Sam’s end of the line. “Hang tight. I’m on my way.”

“It’s gotta be seven hundred miles at least. It’s gonna take you a damn day.”

It probably says a whole lot about Dean that he’s more concerned about the time constraints than he is about the inconvenience his brother is going through for him.

_Nothing you don’t already know, Winchester._

“Six hundred and seventy-seven.” Sam corrects. “It’ll be ten hours if I floor it. Just… don’t do anything crazy in the interim.”

_Crazy like –_

“As if I would, Sammy.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry!

This place is in dire need of repairs.

The water stain in the corner above the door is a serious health hazard, and the hairline fracture that starts underneath the iron-barred window frame is misleadingly benign-looking, but as Castiel knows – and is living proof – looks can be deceiving.

He sips at the tepid, muddy excuse for coffee and tries to look as contrite as possible. He can hear the low rumble of voices behind the two-way mirror.

The standard issue clock on the landlord-white wall is one minute and eighteen seconds slow. Castiel has been here for ten hours, twenty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds.

Give or take one minute and eighteen seconds.

Sam Winchester should be arriving any time now. Because of course that’s who Dean will have called. In fact, Castiel’s entire plan hinges on it.

Any time now.

There’s a commotion outside the interview room, voices raised, police officers no doubt scrambling over themselves, and seconds later the door is flung open and there in all his suited and booted glory stands Dean’s younger – bigger – brother Sam.

Castiel smiles.

Good boy, Dean.

He’s definitely got broader in the years since Castiel last saw him.  He’s still as attractive as Castiel remembers with his soft hair and sharp, intelligent eyes, but he’s no competition for his brother.

Nobody is.

He looks tired.

“Castiel Novak?”

Castiel settles into his hapless professor skin as if he’d never left it behind with a dozen or so other bodies in Kansas. _Showtime._ “Good afternoon. Are you my attorney?”

“Yes. Er, Good afternoon. My brother sent me. I’m Sam Winchester.”

Castiel feigns surprise. “Oh. I thought you were in California.”

“I was.” Sam replies gruffly, slams his faux leather briefcase down on the table between them. “Now I’m here.” He looks at Castiel properly, double takes, narrows his eyes. “Do I know you?”

Castiel tries for guileless. “I don’t believe so. Not unless you were ever a student at Kansas University?” He knows that Sam wasn’t, of course he knows.

“No. You just…” He stops himself, shakes his head, a couple of strands of chestnut hair fall from behind his left ear. “You just look sort of familiar that’s all. And your surname…”

“It’s relatively common in North America.” Castiel offers with a slight smile. Around 43,000 Novaks in America, to be precise.

Sam nods, not entirely convinced, “Yeah I guess you’re right.”

Castiel says nothing, but he can tell by the way Sam’s eyes remain on him as he takes a seat opposite that he’s not letting this go.

Good.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve gotta ask. Do you have a brother?”

“Is this helping my case?” Castiel asks.

Sam shrugs. “Maybe. If you’re a twin.” To most it would seem like a joke, an attempt to break the ice, but Castiel sees it for exactly what it is. A deliberate move. Shrewd.

Interesting.

Castiel sighs, put upon. “I do have a brother, but I wouldn’t say that we look alike. I’m sure that almost anybody who saw us together side-by-side would agree.”

“What’s his name?”

At this juncture Castiel could tell him. Put his cards on the table and let this game play out. Or he could keep control a little longer. After all, he’s been waiting years for this; there’s fun to be had in drawing it out.

“We’ve already established that it’s probably not relevant.” Castiel says with carefully restrained patience. “I understand that you’ve come a long way to help me, Sam, and for that I’m sincerely grateful, but maybe we shouldn’t waste any more time? My family tree can be discussed at length once this matter has been straightened out.”

Sam exhales, seemingly pulling himself into lawyer mode. He takes another deep breath, straightens his blue tie, settles into the seat. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Castiel waves a dismissive hand. The metal chain shackling his hands to the table clanks softly. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” Sam sighs, opens the manila folder on the desk. “Alright, so. Assault with a deadly weapon. You’ve been charged with assault in the third degree, which carries a prison term of five years in this state. Were you informed of this at your arrest?”

“Yes.”

“Were you read your rights?”

“Yes.”

“Since your arrest, have you been subject to any ill-treatment, any bias or discrimination?”

“No.”

Though, the jibes in the car about Dean and his pretty mouth have not gone unnoticed.

Nor will they go unpunished.

“Okay. Good.” Sam flips over to the next page in the folder, scanning it quickly. “No priors.” He looks back up at Castiel. “So, I’m gonna cut to the chase here, because getting frantic phone calls from my brother at half seven in the morning is not something I enjoy… Do you have any defense?”

Castiel leans forward in his seat, handcuffs catching against the table. He lowers his voice until it’s barely above a rough whisper, a secret shared between the two of them. “Besides the fact that the statute of limitations ran out on this almost a year ago, you mean?”

There’s a pregnant pause, whilst Sam just gapes at him. “What?” Then he’s looking down, frantically flipping through the papers, like they’ll help him make sense of something that’s been deliberately designed to be nonsensical. “I mean I didn’t – I came straight here, I haven’t had a chance to look through – and Dean didn’t –“ He looks back up at Castiel, hazel eyes wide and disbelieving. “ _You knew_?”

Castiel lifts a shoulder in an imitation of a shrug. “The police don’t seem to care. Apparently it’ll still be going to trial. I’ve heard that it can happen in some cases, especially where the altercation involved a member of law enforcement.”

Assault with a deadly weapon will be the least of Officers Taylor and Simmons’ problems soon.

Sam still looks thunderstruck, caught out by Castiel’s candidness. Clearly on autopilot, he says, “Yeah, it’s not that uncommon. It’ll still most likely be thrown out of court though…” He stops, another realization eclipsing the first. “Wait. If the SoL ran out, how did the police find you? There wouldn’t have been an active warrant for your arrest.”

Castiel smiles, all teeth and serrated edges. “Just who do you think would have tipped the police off as to the whereabouts of a suspect in an assault case anyway, Sam? Even if it had been active? Use that big brain of yours to think about it for a moment. The check-in clerk at the hotel? I could gun the entire place down and they would barely look up from their soft-core porn mag. An erstwhile member of the public then? Come on, most of them can’t tell their ass from their elbow. As a lawyer, you know that.”

Dean is very straightforward and A-to-B about things. Castiel prefers the scenic route. The more nuanced the better.

Sam stares at Castiel, realization dawning. “You. _You?_ What? But why? Why on earth would you do that?”

Cards on the table time. “My brother’s name is Gabriel.”

It’s not an answer, it’s _the_ answer.

Castiel watches closely as Sam’s expression runs the gamut of emotion; confusion through anger through recognition and circles right back to confusion. “Gabriel? Gabriel Novak?”

Castiel hums his confirmation. “He lives in California. Well, did. Back when you dealt with him. He’s in Las Vegas now. Married to a showgirl.” He pauses, thinks. “Or is it a showboy this time? I can never keep up. I’m sure there’s a divorce or two in there somewhere. Either way, he’s an excellent actor, wouldn’t you agree?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, enjoying this moment far too much. “Actually, his little stint with you is what persuaded him to pursue a career on the stage. Though, admittedly the end product is a little different.”

“What the fuck.” Sam mutters, eerily similar to his brother as he takes this new information in. Castiel allows him a few minutes to gather himself. “Gabriel. He was the one. The one who – He talked to me about Kansas, helped me, figured out the logistics of Dean moving there – how to keep him safe – He said he was a private detective. That he’d keep an eye on him.”

Of course lawyers have to have excellent memories. It’s pleasing to know that Sam is no different.

“Well.” Castiel says coolly, “I’m sure he said that he’d have someone from his ‘company’ keep an eye on Dean. He didn’t lie about that. I’d been keeping a _very_ close eye on Dean and continued to do so once he moved out to Kansas. Which is where I was already, in case you hadn’t figured that part out yet.”

There’s a small pause, then heated, Sam demands, “What the Hell _is_ this?”

Castiel leans back in the cheap police station chair, tries on his least friendly smile. “ _This_ is something far beyond your comprehension Sam Winchester. First things first. Get me out of here, then we’ll talk. It’s time for a reunion.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really not happy with some of this chapter, but if I keep picking at it, it's gonna be another year before it gets put up. So I'm sorry for the wait and the next (and final) one won't be far behind!
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments guys; very much appreciated.

By the time that Castiel and Sam finally emerge from the police station, Dean would say that he’s at his wits end, but that’s kind of a misrepresentation as it’s not really a long walk.

Not these days anyways.

Not since Bradley.

Not since Dean went from some _ one  _ desperate to some _ thing _ dangerous.

Occasionally Dean thinks about what the Hell he and Cas are doing. Wonders just where all this is leading. Tries not to as a general rule, but on days like today – when faced with the antithesis of their lifestyle – it’s kind of hard to avoid. 

Frontier justice, Cas calls it. Like he believes in the concept of justice at all. By Cas’s own admission, real justice – if it existed – would be removed of all passion, of all emotion. Otherwise it’s just vengeance. 

Thing is, there’s nothing  _ but _ passion and emotion between them. Their executions, such as they are, have less in common with a detached sense of righteousness and are more a form of revenge on society as a whole. 

Which given everything that they’ve been through together makes sense. From Dean’s perspective at least. He knows why he’s here; a multitude of complex reasons, tangled together, intertwined in a way that would take years to unpick. All tied together by the Gordian knot that is Cas. But he’s not entirely sure what’s in it for Cas, has yet to figure out the ties that bind him.

Beyond Dean’s tight ass and perky nipples, of course.

Seeing his younger brother – someone he did everything for in his previous life – and Castiel – someone he does everything for in his current life – side by side is like staring at a Hieronymus Bosch painting; morbidly fascinating in its bizarre nature, but altogether unsettling in a way that he can’t quite pinpoint. At least beyond the obvious.

He’s not sure who he wants to hug first. But if Dean’s honest with himself - which he isn’t all that often these days - that’s not really the issue at hand.

Either way, he’s up and out of the Impala – ‘cause like fuck he was gonna wait inside the station; he’s not quite that bald-faced, not yet anyway – in zero seconds flat, and he’s striding towards the only two people who matter.

He decides to go to Sam first, pulling him into a one-armed Winchester hug that feels more cursory than affectionate. It’s more of a means to an end - going through the motions so that he can get to Cas, can cling to him. He presses his face into the curved hollow of Cas’s throat when he finally gets both arms around him, inhaling the scent of him, body wash, sweat, cheap coffee.

_ Cas. _

Dean reluctantly comes up for air, lifting his head, but can’t quite detach himself completely as he looks at his brother, throat tight. “Thanks Sam. I really appreciate this.”

He means it.

Sam offers him a weary smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s cool. It’s good to see you, man. Despite the situation.”

Dean  _ thinks _ Sam means it.

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, muffled against Dean’s jaw. “Maybe I could have met your brother for the first time under slightly different circumstances, hmm?”

“Oh yeah?” Dean replies, pulling back enough to look Cas in the eye, “And who the fuck was I supposed to call, you asshole? Ghostbusters?”

Castiel’s answering smirk is both blisteringly beautiful and entirely wicked, “Glad to see that the day’s events haven’t robbed you of your sledgehammer wit.”

Fuck, but Dean loves him.

Of course, Sam - ultimate moment killer - chooses that instant to clear his throat, reminding Dean not only of his brother’s presence, but also the fact that he and Cas are standing outside a police station gazing at each other like something out of a sickening rom-com.

Dean still can’t bring himself to pull away from Cas though. Not when that steely blue-eyed stare is boring a hole right into his soul and out the other side, reminiscent of that first night in the diner all those months ago.

Sam, not one for knowing when to quit, says, “Look. I think we all need to have a talk.” 

Refusing to take his eyes off of Dean, Castiel says, “Let’s go back to the motel.”

 

***

 

Awkward isn't the word. 

Dean isn’t sure what exactly the word  _ is _ , but awkward definitely ain’t it. Maybe fraught, or unstable, or tense. On the way to the motel, just the two of them in the Impala, Sam following behind in his poncy Lexus-type-thing, Cas had been cagey, but it’s not so much that as it is the weird atmosphere that has settled uneasily over the entire day, a thin layer of filmy residue that leaves Dean itching and fidgety; nervous for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. 

He’s clearly missing something here. 

Besides a conscience of course.

Something’s happened between Sam and Cas, and when Dean replays their exit from the station through the eyes of someone who wasn’t disgustingly relieved to see them, he can see that the edginess was there in both of them then, an invisible line of tension keeping them both upright and tight-lipped.

While Sam’s guiding his eco-car into a narrow space in the lot, Dean’s fumbling the motel room keys out of his pocket and leaning in close to Castiel to stage whisper,“The fuck is going on Cas?”

Instead of a real response, Dean simply receives the same smile that he got from Cas outside the police station, except this time, there’s nothing going on behind his eyes. Just a sort of vague blankness that usually heralds bloodshed. 

Dean wants to ask more questions, but instead turns his attention to the suddenly difficult task of getting the motel room door open.

Usually he’d push for answers - although that hasn’t been much of a necessity of late as Cas has mostly been pretty forthcoming. At least in comparison to his mindfuckery days left behind in Lawrence - but Dean’s not really sure whether he wants the answers. 

It’s not going to be anything good, is it. 

By the time Sam appears, closing the door behind himself with a soft click, Dean has wound himself up so thoroughly with the possibilities of what’s happened between his brother and boyfriend, that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin with frustration.

It doesn't help that Cas has completely ignored Dean’s question - and presence - seemingly intent on acting as if nothing is going on, casually changing out of the clothes he’d hastily pulled on during his arrest earlier, in favour of his faded AC/DC shirt and a pair soft jeans.

“Alright,” Dean says slowly, sliding his gaze from Cas - who seems far too interested in an invisible speck of dust on his shirt - over to Sam. Who won’t meet Dean’s eyes. 

Brilliant.

“Someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on. Seriously.”

After a beat of silence, Castiel says, “Dean, why don’t you get your brother a beer.”

It isn’t a suggestion and Sam appears to register this too, because he doesn’t protest. 

_ Fine. _

Dean can play this bullshit game too. As he goes over to the mini fridge, retrieves a bottle of piss-water and uncaps it on the metal of his ring, he faux-cheerfully asks, “How’s Jess?”

“She’s good.” Sam replies with a tiny - but genuine - smile and a small nod of thanks as Dean hands the beer over. “She’s at her parents’ house this week.”

“Oh, cool. Good timing, then I guess.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Sam says, jaw suddenly tight, all traces of good humor gone. He stares down at his beer like it’s personally offended him.

Dean’s about to ask what heinous crime the Budweiser is guilty of – besides tasting like piss – but he’s interrupted by Castiel.

“Just as well really.” His boyfriend says casually from his position over by the window. The sky is overcast, iron-gray clouds full to burst. “Not like Sam would have been able to leave his pregnant girlfriend to rush to our aid, Dean.”

Silence falls again. Jess is pregnant?

Holy shit. 

Dean knows that he’s dropped the ball on their relationship. Accepts that there are some events in the last year and a half that he’s probably missed out on. But Sam and Jess being pregnant? There was a time when – 

_ Was. Past tense. _

It hurts. Slices through the tender parts of him more efficiently than any blade that they have stashed in the Impala’s trick trunk ever could.

And there’s the fact that he told Cas first…

“Dean –“ Sam starts to say, beer discarded on the cigarette-pitted table to his left, but Dean gets in there first.

“Congratulations Sammy.” He forces a smile, hopes that it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. Because he is happy for Sam,  _ he is _ . There’s just something era-ending about it all. “Now you’ve got everything that you’ve ever wanted. Perfect job, perfect family, perfect life.” 

_ And you’re not a part of it. _

Not that Dean’s deserved to a be a part of it for quite some time now. But still.

“We weren’t telling anyone yet.” Sam says, a quiet urgency in his voice, a plea for Dean to understand, to  _ listen _ . “She’s only nine weeks – “

Dean nods, turns his back for a moment to pull himself together, tries not to let anger bleed into his tone. “Just people you don’t know? Technical strangers, like Cas? I get it, Sam.”

“No you don’t.” Sam says, “I didn’t –“

“It’s fine, Sam.” He doesn’t want to argue. He really doesn’t. He musters up a genuine sentiment as he turns back to face his brother again. “I’m happy for you, man. Truly.”

He is. 

Sam has Jess. Dean has Cas. 

It’s not like they were ever going to be shackled together forever. Sam has always been the independent type; enjoyed striking out on his own, forging his own path.

Dean’s always been the one who needs someone.

The only difference between Sam and Cas is that in Castiel, Dean has found someone who completely on board with the level of co-dependency Dean requires.

_ Get a grip, Winchester. _

“So, you guys had a good talk at the station, huh? Swapped secrets, pored over your diaries. Braided each other’s hair.”

“Something like that.” Cas says with a wry smile.

Sam snorts out a laugh. There’s no humor in it.

And again, Dean’s back to that niggling feeling that he’s missing something. 

_ Besides a relationship with your brother? _

He’s bone tired, on the back foot and hates being the only person in the room that doesn’t know what’s going on.  “Alright you two. Are either of you going to let me in on what the fuck’s happened? Because I’m getting a Cuban missile crisis vibe here.”

Nothing.

“Sam?”

Nothing. Other than a slight jaw twitch.

“Cas?”

A beat, then, “I think Sam may be frustrated because it seems as if his journey has been a wasted one.” Cas explains, calm and composed as ever. Like Dean isn’t on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum. “The statute of limitations on the offence I was charged with ran out awhile ago.”

“Oh.” Dean says, deflated. “But that’s good, right? No jail?”

“No jail.” Cas confirms with that slow warm smile that makes Dean’s stomach tie itself in knots. “Sam thought that it may still go to trial, but it’s looking doubtful that they’ll be taking any further action.”

It’s great news. Unfortunate about Sam having to make the trip up here and judging by his expression, Sam feels the same way, but still...

Nope. That’s not it.

Dean tries again, patience wearing more than a little thin. “Sam?”

Sam sighs in that way he does, like he never meant it to come to this, but Dean’s forced him into a corner. “Are you sure about this, Dean?”

“About what?”

He doesn’t need to say it, but the sick, damaged part of Dean’s mind wants him to. Needs to hear it. 

“Castiel.” Sam gestures loosely at the room. “This.”

Dean tries not to bristle at the not-quite-accusation behind Sam’s words. The implication remains unspoken, but just sort of hangs in the air. For the bluntness of the question, there’s a surprising amount of subtlety there too.

Damn lawyers.

Castiel blinks and his gaze sharpens, focus completely on Dean. Like Sam’s question isn’t even an outrageous one for him to be asking. Like they haven’t spent the best part of two years killing and fucking and fighting.

Like he’s expecting something other than an emphatic yes.

Which Dean gives willingly. “Yes.” As if it would even occur to him to say anything else. 

He recognises the concern in the creases of his brother’s expression, which is why his next words are both chosen and spoken carefully. “We love each other. Cas takes care of me. I take care of him.” 

_ You both take care of others. _

He gruffly adds, “Not that it’s any of your business,” for good Dean Winchester measure. 

And it isn’t Sam’s business. Hasn’t been for a long time. Definitely isn’t now that he’s got his own family to worry about.

Sam’s face crumples. “Of course it is, Dean. I love you too. I want to – not take care of you, ‘cause you’re more than capable obviously – but at least be there for you too. If you need me.”

He’s not talking lawyer stuff, he’s talking brother stuff. And maybe before Cas he would have loved the reassurance of hearing Sam say this – even if he probably already knew – but now? Now he’s not the same broken person that Alastair left behind. The one that Sam grew to know as his older brother.

There’s something about the notion that Sam thinks he knows this version Dean that rubs him up the wrong way. He’s worked hard to leave that weak, pathetic shell of himself behind. Hates that he was ever that person.

“I’ve already thanked you for turning up today.”

Exasperated, Sam says, “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Irritation flares in Dean’s veins. “Well then, what  _ do _ you mean, Sam? Because you’re trying to say something without actually saying it and I’m not in the mood. If you have something to say, then just fucking say it!”

Dean can feel Castiel’s eyes grow heavier and heavier on him as the seconds tick excruciatingly by. 

“I think he’s dangerous.” Sam says eventually, too gently, pronoun simultaneously giving nothing and everything away. “I think your…  _ boyfriend _ is another Alastair waiting to happen.”

_ ‘You should never trust anyone who takes an interest in you. Because I may be an evil son-of-a-bitch, but it takes one to know one, and I’m telling you right now that your little boyfriend there? He’s worse than me.’ _

_ ‘Can’t see the wood for the trees, can you Dean? Can’t see who you’ve got into bed with this time.’ _

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, all teeth, vicious with indignation now. Out for blood. “Well he fucking saved me from Alastair! He was there to pick up the pieces, put me back together again. He stuck around and actually helped. Which is more than you ever did.”  _ It’s not fair, not fair, Sam was just a kid –  _ “It’s more than anyone ever did.”

None of it is a lie, but it’s not exactly fair either.

Sam flinches at the pointed words and Dean wants to feel bad, he does, but he can’t. The anger is rising thick and fast and he just can’t be that weak person again,  _ he can’t. _

Magnum mouthed, he shoots to kill. “You know what Sam? Fuck you. You think you can ride to the goddamn rescue and hold my fucking hand through it all? Make it all better? Just like last time. ‘Give evidence, Dean. Alastair will go to jail forever’. Yeah, ‘cause that worked out so fucking well for me didn’t it?”

The words trip over Dean’s tongue, resentment painfully accessible, even after all this time. He registers the flicker of hurt across his brother’s face, a thousand micro-expressions in a split second, his tan skin going nearly as pale as the sun-bleached motel blinds behind him, but Dean can’t bring himself to give in to the guilt tugging at his chest. “Dean -”

“We fucking killed him, y’know.” Dean blurts, because in for a dime, in for a dollar. “Alastair. Drove a blade through his heart.”

Sam looks pained, but not entirely surprised.

And that’s when Dean's confusion melts away and realization dawns. 

For a second, his own heartbeat feels so loud it’s all he can hear. 

And then Dean’s turning on Cas, meeting the assessing gaze that has been weighing him down during the entire discussion. “Really Cas? You told him? In a fucking police station? Are you insane?”

He kinda sorta already knows the answer to that last one.

Cas shrugs in that Cas way, the way that says, ‘eh what are you gonna do?’ 

Dean’s teeth grind, silently. 

_ Fucking Hell, Castiel. _

“Did you at least wait until you weren’t being recorded?”

“It was on the way out.” Castiel confirms with a nonchalant eye roll, like a recalcitrant teenager being scolded for underage drinking.

“Oh right. That’s okay then.” Dean bites out sarcastically. “What the fuck were you thinking Cas? I mean seriously -”

“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam interrupts softly. Too softly. Like Dean’s still broken. Like he won’t be able to handle a raised voice. Which is hilariously misguided at best and irritatingly cloying at worst. “It was self-defense.”

Which yeah, no.

“It wasn’t Sammy. It really wasn’t.” Dean’s not sure whether that’s an assumption Sam has made on his own or whether Cas supplied it, but either way it’s wrong. It paints Dean as a victim, which he’s worked hard not to be any more.

The declaration does nothing to dislodge that pitying look from his brother’s face.

Dean will always be a victim in Sam’s eyes.

Sam doesn’t understand. How could he? Nobody does. That’s entirely the point. Dean and Cas against the world. 

He looks at Sam. Really looks at him. At the brother he raised. At the man he’s become. 

He’s just another obstacle between him and Cas. Another obstacle between him and the happiness that it’s taken him so long to realize that he deserves. It may not be conventional and he’s not asking for Sam’s approval or even his understanding, he’s simply asking for him to accept it. To realize that Dean is happy and that’s fine. Whatever form it comes in.

But apparently, even that’s not an option because the next words out of Sam’s mouth are:

“Dean this is sick.”

“Maybe it is.” Dean says, suddenly calmer than he feels. “But it’s none of your business. Don’t try to make me choose, Sammy.”

“What? Between this?” He once again gestures to Cas and the motel in a dismissive manner, “and your family?”

“Cas is my family.”

Sam’s composure finally cracks in the face of Dean’s unwavering defiance, fracturing right down the middle, “Why is this even a serious conversation that we’re having? He’s just another manipulative bastard like Alastair and you’re too blind to see it!”

Dean laughs, cold. “Fuck you. Believe it or not  _ I choose  _ this. I choose Cas. I choose our life together.” 

“Over my dead body.”

Dean spares a quick glance for Cas, who looks like he’s reminding himself that Sam’s chewed out reply is just an idiom and not an invitation or request.

Sam bulldozes on, completely unaware of the tenuity of the proverbial ice beneath his oversized feet right now. “You have no idea what I did for you, Dean. None whatsoever. And I’d do it all over again if I had to. You’re my brother and I’m not leaving here without you.”

Admirable, yes. Accurate, no.

Dean’s ready to hear him out. Should be good. Almost definitely not even close to what Dean’s done for Sam, but that’s neither here nor there. “So fucking tell me then, Sam.” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” Sam mutters, barely even able to look at Cas. “He knows.”

Dean grits his teeth, folds his arms. “Because I’m asking  _ you _ , Sam. What did you do that I should be so grateful for, hmm?” 

For a split second, Sam looks torn, like he wants to answer, but can’t bring himself to. “Well I didn’t help you commit a felony, that’s for sure!”

“No, that’s right. You didn’t.” Dean spits, disappointment hot in his gut. “You were content to let me keep on running scared. Let Alastair get away with it! I mean, what the fuck, Sam? If somebody hurt you, I’d fucking kill them!”

It’s not fair, but nothing ever is.

Clearly at a loss for an answer, Sam gives it the old college try, “Not before you met  _ him _ you wouldn’t, Dean! Before you met him, you were a good person.”

Dean thinks back to Gordon Walker, his fists clenching harder, sharper, phantom ache in them now reminiscent of the real pain he’d experienced for days after. 

No, he really wasn’t. 

Sam’s dogged assurance in Dean’s inherent goodness is another agonizing reminder that no-one has ever truly seen him. At least not in the way that Cas does. Sam grew up viewing Dean through awesome-big-brother tinted lenses - maybe it’s one of the many reasons that he was able to overlook where Dean went in the evenings back when they were both teenagers and had nothing but a can of refried beans to their name. 

He didn’t know Dean back then and certainly doesn’t know him now. 

“Sam,” Castiel cuts in, forever Dean’s savior for when he doesn’t have the will or words available, “I think you’d better leave.” He starts across the paisley-patterned carpet towards Sam, intent on shepherding him out of the room. Not only Dean’s savior, but his guard dog, his avenging angel.

His everything.

Dean steps back a little, allowing Cas control over the situation, expression shuttering. He’s so goddamn tired. He wants to crawl into bed with Cas and sleep until it’s time not to.

“No!” Sam shouts, panic creeping in around the edges. “I’m not leaving without him. This is all your fault, you bastard! What the fuck have you done to my brother?”

“Nothing that he didn’t want.” Castiel replies, calm. Infuriating. Unyielding.

It’s the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but it’s one that Sam can’t handle, because suddenly he’s moving surprisingly quickly for a sasquatch - 

\- and punching Castiel in the face, the dull sound of flesh striking flesh the only sound in the motel room for a moment that seems to stretch out for an eternity. 

Dean stares, heart fluttering against his ribcage. Nobody has laid their hands on Cas (or Dean) and lived to tell the tale. But the returning blow never comes. Castiel merely stares Sam down, wiping his bloodied nose on his forearm, smearing bright bright red, stunningly macabre in a way that only really Cas can carry off.

When someone finally speaks with a rough, scratchy voice, it’s Dean. “I’m going to get some ice. You’d better be gone by the time I get back, Sam.” 

He doesn’t bother adding the ‘or else’, figures Cas won’t need any help with getting that particular message across himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're finally here. Woot woot!
> 
> RRH was always meant as a standalone, but I hope I've managed to clear up a few things in the two extra stories, as well as bringing a little more richness to the overall arc.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for the support, especially my favourite librarian who sends me dog pics via Instagram <3.

The outing of Jess’ pregnancy was a risk. There was always a chance that it could push Dean further towards Sam. Of course, Sam hadn’t told Castiel anything about her being pregnant, but Castiel has never let a little thing like the truth get in the way of his plans, and he’s not about to start now.

Not when he’s so close.

Sam is Dean’s final anchor to the real world. The one last remaining part of himself separate from Castiel. 

Not after today. After today, Dean and Castiel will be completely intertwined. Forever.

Sam’s broad chest is still heaving, fists clenched with righteous anger. He’s just put the final nail in his own coffin.

So to speak.

If Castiel were half the man that Dean deserves then he’d feel a lot more wretched about all this, but he’s not, and Dean wants him and he wants Dean, so here they are. Dean is  _ his _ . And with Sam still in the picture, albeit the background, there’s just no way that Castiel could truly hold the entirety of Dean’s heart. This way…

Well. This is not the method that Castiel would have chosen himself, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat and at least this way if Sam and Jessica Winchester were to meet with an untimely accident when he and Dean are across the country in Des Moines, Iowa, then it’s a terrible tragedy that Dean won’t know about for several months, maybe years if Castiel is lucky.

Dean will most likely join the dots eventually, but that’s why today was required. To test a reaction. He needed to see for himself whether Dean needs Castiel as much as Castiel needs Dean.

Dean - always an overachiever, a defier of expectations - has impressed once again with his unwavering devotion to Castiel, even in the face of overwhelming logic from the man who previously held Dean’s affections.

It almost renders Sam and Jess’ deaths unnecessary.

Almost.

Of course, pushing Dean like this is still a risk and Castiel would be lying if he said otherwise.

After all, this is the brother that Dean did everything for. This is the child he practically raised, and forcing him into a decision where the outcome is either choosing his own flesh and blood or the man who tears people down until they’re nothing  _ but _ flesh and blood is perhaps not one of Castiel’s better ideas. 

Except, judging by the dark eyed violence brewing inside Dean as he stomps out of the motel room to get some ice, perhaps it is. 

Hindsight is 20/20 and it’s apparent by the look of dawning horror on Sam’s face as he slowly calms and shakes out his fist that he’s realized he should have thought before he acted. Before he went and did exactly what Castiel needed him to do in order to bring Dean in closer. 

Overachieving apparently runs in the family.

The familiar tang of iron is on Castiel’s lips, and he smiles through the crimson, twinge of pain in his nose nothing compared to the soaring feeling of triumph thundering in his chest.

Sam’s processing a lot of information right now, so Castiel gives him a moment to collect himself, to decide which way to take this. It’s the least he can do, really.

After all, Dean may have forgotten about the pretty necklace of bruises that he’s showcasing so beautifully, but Castiel hasn’t, and judging by the tightening of Sam’s jaw every time he caught sight of them, he’s having trouble forgetting about them as well.

Good.

Sam’s not naive. Nor is he suffering with self-esteem so low that it could be stepped over by a small child, so he has no reason to swallow any excuse that Castiel deigns to give for knowing about the pregnancy, or for the execution of Alastair, or in fact for this whole stunt. Certainly not for the purple fingerprints ringing his brother’s neck.

There’s something to be said for the lack of pretense that’s required here. Castiel has spent his life weaving intricate lies, fabricating truths, splitting twine and plaiting it back together to suit his own needs.

And it’s all lead him to this moment. A moment in which for once, he doesn’t need to say anything but the absolute truth. 

The truth shall set him and Dean free. Completely.

And fuck, if that isn’t what it’s all about. What it’s always been about.

Castiel’s obsession with Dean is all-consuming, a constant ache in his bones; complex in a way that he’s not still entirely sure how to handle, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to spend the rest of his life figuring it out. His one insecurity, however, has always lain with whether Dean feels the same level of commitment to the point where he’s willing to forgo the safety net and plummet towards the earth with nothing but faith in Castiel that everything will be okay.

Castiel has always tried to give Dean an out; a break-glass-incase-of-emergency-hammer, and this is the last one before they truly become exactly what Castiel envisaged back in the courtroom that day. 

Sam.

Sam is that final out.

“What’s to stop me from going to the police with what you’ve told me?” Is Sam’s first question, and really, Castiel wouldn’t have gone with it, but it’s okay, because he’s feeling altruistic today.

“Three things, Sam.” Castiel lifts his hand, counts off on his fingers. “Firstly, attorney-client privilege. Secondly, you’d be sending Dean to prison as well - joint enterprise. Thirdly, if by some miracle, you managed to get just me indicted, Dean would never speak to you again.”

Sam almost definitely already knew all that, but it’s always nice to have things confirmed aloud.

There’s also a fourth reason, which Castiel has already laid the groundwork for, but it’s his ace in the hole, so he’ll keep it face down for now.

“You son of a bitch.” Sam spits, hot blooded and ferocious. In any other situation, Castiel would admire his tenacity and his passion, would be impressed by the love he clearly has for his brother.

But he’s Castiel’s competition and Castiel has never been good at losing.

“Do you know what it means to truly love someone, Sam? And I don’t just mean hearts and flowers. Well. Maybe I do.” He quirks a smile at own little in-joke. “But it’s so much more. Doing anything for someone you love requires a trip to Hell and back, it requires sacrifice. We wouldn’t be here if you had given up even half of what Dean gave for you.”

“Yeah?” Sam sneers. “And what exactly have you given up for Dean?”

“ _ Everything _ . And I would do it all over again anytime he needed, wanted or even asked me to. And the most important thing? He knows, Sam. He knows the depths of my devotion to him and yet he chooses to stay with me.  _ Chooses me _ . He’s always had a choice.”

It’s mostly the truth.

“So that’s it is it? You win… So you win?”

“Game over. Tilt.”

“No.” Sam says, firm. Determination etched into every line of his face. It really is admirable; lesser men would have given it up as a bad job by now. “I told you, I’m not leaving without him. He’s not-”

“Who you think he is.” Castiel cuts him off at the pass, before Sam says something stupid that they’ll both regret. For entirely different reasons. “The only thing that Dean is not,  _ is who you need him to be _ . He’s who he always should have been.”

Sam gapes, brought up short. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” Castiel responds, unruffled. Sanity is overrated. “I’m also right.”

Desperation tightens its stranglehold, forcing Sam to fumble for the only real weapon he has left in his arsenal, words melding together in his rush to get them out, “I’ll tell Dean everything. Everything about Gabriel, how you stalked him.  _ Everything. _ ”

Sam can’t reveal Castiel’s truth without also revealing his own. It’s why he didn’t say anything earlier and it’s why this is most likely an empty threat. But still. 

“Do it. See what happens.” Maybe six months ago it might have caused an issue, but now? Dean will probably be pissed for a while, but he’ll eventually see it for what it is. An act of devotion. Just like everything that Castiel has done.

It’s all for Dean. 

And so that Castiel can have Dean. 

That said, however, it’s not the past implications that Castiel is worried about, it’s the ones for the future, and realistically he needs Dean’s ignorance of the former to remain so that when the time comes, he won’t have everything he needs to lead him right to Castiel and the correct conclusion.

Sam’s working through the dare, weighing up his options, and it’s entirely possible that he’s going to come down on the side of rationality, which means that he’ll be telling Dean everything as promised.

Which is unfortunate.

More for Sam and his pregnant wife than for Castiel.

Castiel glances at the clock on the wall. Any second now.

“Fuck you, I’m going to tell him -”

Castiel’s phone beeps on the table next to Sam’s untouched beer. 

His ace in the hole.

He already knows what the message will say, but he still picks it up and scans over it in front of Sam, because there’s going through the motions and then there’s really committing and Castiel has always been more about the latter.

Without looking up, Castiel says, “Hmm. You should probably get going, Sam. Jess will be setting off from Phoenix soon, and it’s what? About ten hours drive from there too? You don’t want her getting back to an empty house.” Which is when Castiel finally looks up and makes eye contact with Sam, who looks like he’s aged into his mid-forties in the last few seconds, “Assuming it’s truly empty, of course. You left in quite the rush, didn’t you? Are you sure that you locked all of the doors properly?”

It’s not the most subtle insinuation Castiel has ever made, but it’ll get his point across.

He’s half hoping Sam will hit him again. Really hammer that coffin lid closed.

Instead, Sam stands rooted to the spot. Probably running through the possibilities. Did he mention that Jess’s parents lived in Phoenix without remembering? Did Dean previously know that Jess’s parents lived in Phoenix? Could he have mentioned it to Castiel at some point and that’s why Castiel is bringing it up now? Did he say when she was going to be back?

All excellent questions. Unfortunately the answer to all of them, as Sam probably knows, is no.

And now comes the more important part that Castiel needs Sam to focus on.

“You bastard.” Sam says, breathy and low. “I swear to God if you lay one hand on her -”

Castiel holds his hands up in mock surrender, “Either of these hands? Now how would I do that, Sam? We’re six hundred and seventy seven miles away, after all.”

And in timing so utterly orgasmic and flawless that Castiel couldn’t have predicted it, even in his meticulous dreams, that’s the exact moment that Dean appears in the doorway, ice wrapped in the plaid shirt he had been wearing when he left. It’s soaking through, dripping onto the carpet.

“What the fuck?” He’s angry and tired. Two conditions that Dean doesn’t really function well with. 

Because the best defense is a good offense, Castiel gets in before Sam has a chance to. “Sam wasn’t happy about being asked to leave.” Which isn’t a lie. “I really don’t want to hit your brother, Dean.”

Which Dean reads as truthful, but for a different reason to the one that would occur to most people. After all, their relationship slices both ways and Dean knows Castiel better than anyone else. At least enough to not take his words at face value.

“Sam. I told you. Leave.” He stands off to one side, making a sweeping gesture with his free hand out the door. “I don’t want you here. I don’t need you here. In fact, if I ever see you again, it’ll be too soon, so just fuck off back to your wife, your nice little life and leave us alone. Don’t contact us and we won’t contact you.”

And especially not after Castiel destroys their current cellphones. The shiny new iPhone that Dean had been eyeing up for the last month is currently sitting under their bed, an innocuously thoughtful present.

Despite the bone-deep resignation in Dean’s words - and demeanor - it’s obviously painful for him to say, and in that instant Castiel feels for him. But it’s got to be done. Pain now saves pain later. 

Well. Pain now means that the pain later might not be as painful?

Eh.

Sam clenches his jaw, incensed, as he glances between Castiel and Dean and back again, but Castiel’s victory is written in the slump of his shoulders. 

However, accepting defeat with grace is not written into the Winchester DNA, and so Sam crowds in far too close to Castiel as he goes to leave, not stopping until they’re pressed chest to chest, a highschool attempt at intimidation -  _ Castiel has felt someone’s soul leave their body through a knife wound for fuck’s sake  _ \- and growls out, “This isn’t over by a long fucking shot.”

Castiel smiles vacantly up at Sam, victorious.

Oh, but it is.

 

***

 

Dean’s used to wrapping Castiel’s knuckles after a fist fight; has cleaned and bandaged Castiel’s wounds on more occasions than either of them can count, but there’s a sort of tension in the set of Dean’s shoulders tonight that suggests Castiel isn’t about to get jumped this time.

At least not in a sexy way.

It’s not that Dean’s rougher than usual, or is speaking to Castiel differently, he’s just… not Dean. More like a poor imitation, sort of muted.

It’s only after the fifth pass over Castiel’s lip - it’s not possible that there’s still blood there anymore, he’d be dead if he’d bled enough to require this much attention - that Castiel reaches up to grip Dean’s wrist, gently stilling his movements.

“Dean.”

Dean, on his knees between Castiel’s spread legs, won’t meet his eyes. 

Maybe Castiel has misjudged this. For the first time since before they left Lawrence, he can feel the icy beginnings of panic seeping into his veins. “Look at me, Dean.”

It takes a few moments, but when he does, Dean’s expression is a thousand damnations in one; violence promised and granted in the event of a single wrong move.

Fuck, Dean is  _ beautiful _ .

“I am so thoroughly pissed at you right now, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t ask why. Knows that there’s a whole galaxy of reasons. He doesn’t trust himself to pick the right one. 

As predicted, Dean carries on, voice tight as he ditches the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the bedspread next to Castiel’s thigh. “I could have lost you today, Cas. And for what?” He tosses the used cotton ball towards the waste paper basket. Misses. “A fucking assault.”

Castiel doesn't point out that eighteen months ago, an assault was something that made Dean throw up. Now it’s so pass é  that he’s simply concerned about losing Castiel to the prison system.

Oh.

_ He’s simply concerned about losing Castiel to the prison system. _

Oh. 

Relief floods Castiel. Fuck. “Dean.”

“You’re a bastard, Cas.”

Yeah, he is.

And yet, Dean loves him. Isn’t brooding about becoming an uncle, isn’t worried about the brother he raised. No, he’s freaking out because he doesn’t want to be without Castiel.

Such a good boy.

“You don’t get to leave me, okay?”

What else can Castiel say to that other than, ‘ _ marry me _ ?’ “Okay.”

“Fucking promise me, Castiel.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches into a smile. “I fucking promise you, Dean.”

Dean returns his smile then. And it’s just as goddamn arresting as always. Back in that courtroom, Castiel had fallen in love but he’d never realized exactly what it meant until now.

He might actually have to ask Dean to marry him. Which is ridiculous on so many levels.

“You and me against the world, right Cas?”

And there it is. Dean’s saying something without actually saying it; a skill that Castiel wishes he’d never taught him.

“Of course.” Castiel answers instantly, because  _ goddamn _ . “Are you sure?” 

He’s asking so much more than just that question though. 

“Yes.” And Dean’s answering so much more than just that question. “All I need is you, Cas.”

 

And that’s it. 

 

Dean Winchester is his.

Finally.


End file.
